


Someday My Pain Will Mark You

by Quentanilien



Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-09
Updated: 2013-11-17
Packaged: 2017-12-31 23:05:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1037450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quentanilien/pseuds/Quentanilien
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bass and Charlie's lives intertwine through the years, his constant pain causing ripple effects in her life, whether he wants it to or not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title is taken from "The Wolves (Part I and II)" by Bon Iver.
> 
> The first chapter takes place in the same pre-blackout world as my story "Charlotte."

“Read Pooh Bear, please, ‘Bastian,” she says in her lilting little voice. 

They’re both sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of her bookshelf, inspecting her impressive collection. Charlotte’s quite the bookworm for being so young. Bass supposes that comes with the territory of being an only child for several years, then having a sickly little brother who requires any spare attention her busy parents have to give. She runs her fingers caressingly along the spines like her books are much-beloved pets. She shrieks at the baby if he ever tries to grab at one of them with his clumsy, pudgy hands. She slaps Miles sharply on the knuckles every time he pretends he’s going to dog-ear a page just to mess with her. 

Charlotte’s precious books are safe for the moment, though, because their tormenter is at a Bears game with his brother. They’d tried to talk Bass into going with them, but football isn’t really his thing. Now if it was a Cubs game, that’d be a different story. Besides, he had a date tonight with a woman he met when he was out for a run that morning. He really didn’t know a thing about her other than that she’s blonde and she looks amazing in skin-tight yoga pants. That’s all he really needed to know to ask her out for drinks. The only reason he remembered her name is because she’d snatched his phone out of his hands and added herself as a contact almost before the words were out of his mouth. 

Miles had laughed in disbelief when he told him, saying dryly, “Bass, you do realize we’re only here for a few days?” 

Bass had grinned at him. “I don’t need a few days, man.” 

Miles had rolled his eyes indulgently, as he always did. Bass would never say it, but he thinks his friend is a little jealous of the ease with which he picks up women. It doesn’t help Miles’s case that he’s clearly still hung up on Rachel, but there’s a prickly element to his personality that tends to keep strangers at bay. Add that to his acerbic wit and tendency to not smile much, and it takes a certain kind of woman to be drawn to him. Bass doesn’t know exactly what it is about himself that attracts so many more women. Miles jokes that it’s his curly hair and innocent puppy-dog eyes, but Bass suspects it’s more the fact that he laughs easily and often and knows how to give compliments without sounding sarcastic. He doesn’t laugh so often these days, but his dating pool doesn’t seem to have shrunk. Maybe Miles is partially right after all. 

Not that any of his charm came in very handy tonight, because he ended up ditching the hot blonde girl for reasons that still aren’t entirely clear to him. Everything had been going great. She’d been wearing a dress so short it was almost a shirt, and she kept using every excuse possible to touch him, foot brushing his leg every time she crossed and recrossed her legs, hand lingering on his upper arm every time he made her laugh. Their conversation wasn’t very interesting, but that was probably because they were both too busy flirting inanely to keep up a proper conversation. That didn’t really matter though, because she was making it abundantly clear where this night was heading. Bass wasn’t about to complain. 

That is, not until his phone started vibrating noisily in his back pocket. He jerked his hand to it automatically. “Sorry, sorry,” he said, trying unsuccessfully to flip the ringer off through the thick denim of his jeans. He shifted on the bar stool, pulling his phone out, and glanced at the contact name. His finger hesitated over hitting “Ignore.” It was Rachel. That’s what stopped him. He doubted she’d be calling him unless it was important. 

He gave his date an apologetic smile. “Mind if I take this? I think it’s important.” 

She waved a hand in agreement and sipped at her martini. He turned half away from her as he answered the phone. “Rachel?” he asked hesitantly. 

“It’s Charlie,” said the little voice on the other end. 

“Charlotte?” Surprise colored his tone. He thought he saw his date frowning out of the corner of his eye. “Why’re you calling me?” 

“Saw your picture on Momma’s phone.” 

The things Charlotte was capable of doing at such a young age had long ago ceased to surprise him. “Not how. Why?” he asked again, trying to sound patient. 

“Are you coming home?” He tried to ignore the twinge of anguish that still went through him at the word _home_ , even all these months after the accident. 

“Not right now. I’m busy.” The only response he got was heavy breathing. Hopefully she’d just called him because she was bored. “I need to go.” 

“’K.” Oh no. She sounded sniffly, and he knew she didn’t have a cold. He glanced at his date again. Her previously full martini glass was empty already and she had her chin propped on her hand, expression wavering somewhere between boredom and irritation. He knew he was being rude. He sighed in defeat, then mouthed “sorry” at her. “What’s wrong, Charlotte?” 

She sniffed loudly on the other end of the phone. “Danny’s sick and sad again. He’s crying lots and Momma…said she can’t put me to bed.” A hiccup interrupted her words, and then she started crying in earnest. Despite the inconvenience, Bass felt a small smile slipping onto his face at the simple things that devastated a toddler’s world. She started talking through her tears, but he could only catch a few words here and there. “Daddy…Unca Miles…can’t...not home…” 

“Hey, hey, calm down,” he interrupted softly. “What do you need?” 

“Can’t go to sleep!” Her little voice was tremulous. “Need someone to read!” She hiccupped again. 

He knew it was her nightly ritual with Ben. Rachel didn’t do it anymore since Danny had been born, and Bass suspected that’s what this was really about. Poor Charlotte was feeling neglected, and not without some cause. She was healthy and nearly four, and her brother was a sickly baby, so it was obvious which of them got the most attention. 

“You can’t go one night without?” he asked, already knowing the answer. 

“No, ‘Bastian,” she answered, voice sad and muffled. “Can’t sleep.” 

He brought his free hand to his forehead, then dragged it down his face in resignation. “Okay. No more crying and I’ll be back soon. Deal?” 

“Okay.” 

“Okay,” he repeated. “Now put your mom’s phone away and go back to bed.” 

“Okay.” She sniffled one last time, then he heard a click on the other end of the line. He turned back to his date to see she was staring at him now, a suspicious look on her face. 

“Who’s Charlotte?” she asked pointedly, before he could say anything. Bass almost laughed. If only she knew she was jealous of a toddler. 

He smiled. “Family friend’s kid. Some kid emergency.” 

She raised a perfectly arched, skeptical eyebrow. He tried to remember if he’d said anything on the phone that would make that sound like a suspicious cover-up and came up empty. 

“I think you’re hiding something,” she said neutrally. He couldn’t tell if she was joking, appalled, or intrigued. 

He tried unsuccessfully to stifle a smile. “Charlotte’s four.” 

She swished her martini around in the glass. “So you say.” 

He gave a disbelieving chuckle. She was studying him intensely, as though he was suddenly fascinating to her. She leaned forward and placed a hand on his knee. “Want to get out of here?” 

He raked a hand awkwardly through his hair, looking at her hand on his knee with regret and already mentally kicking himself for the words he knew were about to leave his mouth. “Uh, actually, I really should go. I said I would—“ 

She leaned forward, eyes twinkling mischievously. “I thought you said she’s four.” 

“She is,” he said weakly. Their faces were mere inches apart, and he knew if he leaned in to kiss her, she’d be more than happy to reciprocate. They’d fumble their way out the door, go back to her house, have sex on the couch, on her bed, in the shower. Maybe all three. And then he could conveniently leave in the morning and never see her again if he didn’t want to. 

And the words _in the morning_ ruined the fantasy. In the morning, he’d have to return to the Matheson house and see Charlotte’s disappointed expression. He didn’t really know what it would look like, but in his mind it looked like Cynthia’s when he missed her ballet recital to go on a date with some girl whose name he didn’t even remember now, or Angela’s when he missed her birthday party to go on a road trip with some buddies instead. He could beat himself up—and he did _daily_ —over every bit of selfishness he’d ever shown towards them, but it didn’t do any good. He couldn’t take any of it back. It was too late. He was always too late. 

But he wasn’t too late for Charlotte, and it was that thought which propelled him into motion, apologizing once again to his date and thanking her for a lovely evening, hardly even feeling a sting of regret when she looked angry and told him not to bother calling her tomorrow. He walked out then, feeling a strange sort of masochistic elation at denying himself something he wanted for the sake of someone else. 

Which is how he wound up here, sitting on the carpet next to Charlotte as she waves a heavy hardcover copy of _Winnie-the-Pooh_ that’s almost bigger than her in front of his face. He rescues it from her before she can drop it on her head. 

He tries to set it back on the shelf. “Why don’t we read something else?” It was one of Cynthia’s favorites. He’d rather read something with no painful memories attached to it. 

Charlotte’s face scrunches up in confusion. “But I like Pooh Bear best.” 

Bass gives a long-suffering sigh. If only she understood the sacrifices he’s been making for her tonight. Maybe he’ll tell her someday, when she’s old enough to understand. Get a proper “thank you” out of her. He grins at the thought, picturing her looking disgusted and calling him a “womanizing pig” or something similar instead. That seems like a much more accurate depiction of future Charlotte. “Okay, Pooh Bear it is. But you have to get in bed and at least try to get sleepy while I’m reading. It’s already way past your bedtime.” Not that Rachel’s even noticed Charlotte’s still up. Bass hasn’t seen her since he got back, since she’s closeted away in Danny’s room and he’s still screaming inconsolably. 

Eager to please, no doubt so he’ll read exactly as much as she tells him to, Charlotte scurries to her bed, wriggling under the covers and patting the empty space next to her for him to join. He sits on top of her princess comforter, leaning against the wall behind her bed and opening the book on his lap. 

“Here is Edward Bear, coming downstairs now, bump, bump, bump, on the back of his head, behind Christopher Robin,” he begins, and Charlotte burrows her head under his arm like a puppy, so it encircles her little shoulders and she has a better view of the pictures. The old, familiar gesture from _before_ brings tears to his eyes, and his voice catches. She doesn’t notice, fully absorbed in the book. He’s glad of that. She doesn’t need to share his pain. 

She snuggles more heavily into his chest as he keeps reading. All he can see from above is a head full of blonde curls and a tiny hand helping him turn the pages. He could almost pretend she’s one of his sisters. But that isn’t healthy. His therapist told him that after he’d confessed that he followed a couple of blonde teenage girls at the mall one time, always making sure their faces were out of his line of sight so he could keep up the illusion for longer. 

Healthy or not, it’s horribly tempting, which is why he needs to fight against it. He pokes her in the stomach so she’ll tilt her head back to look up at him. “Hey. You sleepy yet?” 

She gives him a mock scowl which quickly dissolves into a giggle. “No.” She swipes a little fist across her eyes. 

Bass laughs at the gesture. “Liar.” 

Charlotte points an imperious finger at the page. “Read, ‘Bastian.” 

He pretends to look affronted. “Where are your manners, Charlotte? A ‘please’ would be nice.” 

“Pleeeeeease,” she says promptly, giving him the winning smile she saves for him and Miles when she wants to get her way. She knows she has them both wrapped around her finger. Little minx. 

He’s barely gotten to the “Tut-tut, it looks like rain” part when her head flops onto his chest, and she’s out like a light. He’s relieved since it spares him from singing the cloud song like his sisters always made him do. He sits still for a few minutes to make sure she stays asleep, trying not to breathe too deeply in case the movement disturbs her. When he’s certain it’s safe, he slides quietly out from under her, gently untangling her fingers from where they’re clutched onto his shirt. She sighs contentedly in her sleep as he quickly replaces the spot he just vacated under her head with a pillow and pulls her comforter up to her chin. 

Bass sets the book back on the shelf and starts picking up some toys she left on the floor, loitering around on purpose. For all his earlier good-natured irritation, now that she’s asleep, the pervading, constant loneliness he feels when left by himself for even a few minutes has settled in already. He’s a grown man and he’s terrified of being alone, even more than Charlotte is. But that makes sense. He never understood the true meaning of the word enough to feel it until his whole family was taken from him. 

Charlotte’s too young and innocent to understand any of that, and for that he’s thankful. He stops in the middle of his tidying, arms full of stuffed animals, to look at her. Her sweet little face is smooth and peaceful in sleep, not a trace of worry or fear. He envies her, and he pities her. It’s a fleeting state of life. Sooner or later, some of the pain that’s left its mark on him will touch her too. He hopes for her sake it’s later. Someday she’ll lose her parents. Maybe not until she has her own kids, even grandkids. Maybe tomorrow. Someday she might lose her little brother, probably before she’s ready for it, if you can ever be ready for a loss like that. He’s always been a sickly little thing. Bass doesn’t know all the details, but Miles always makes it sound like the doctors don’t even know exactly what’s wrong with him. 

Even if she has her family for a long time, there will always be something lost to her sooner or later. The thought of her losing her innocent enjoyment of life, of vivacious little Charlotte becoming broken and jaded by the world like he is, brings unwelcome tears pricking at his eyes. He scrubs at them with one hand, telling himself this is unhealthy too, that he’s transferring his emotions from his absent sisters to Charlotte and that it’s irrational. But he can’t help how he feels, and he’s resigned himself to being a tenuously emotional wreck most the time anyway. 

When he’s done cleaning up, he’s out of excuses to linger around, reconciled to the fact that he’ll have only his own morbid thoughts for company until Miles and Ben get home. He crouches next to the bed and brushes some stray curls out of her face. “Sweet dreams, Charlotte,” he whispers softly, then leaves her to them.


	2. Chapter 2

Charlotte’s slumped on the ground looking up at him, and it reminds him so much of the last time he saved her life that he feels like saying something sarcastic about gratitude again. 

He doesn’t, because he knows it would fall on deaf ears. Not only because he doesn’t expect her to thank him, but because her eyes are unfocused and he can see it’s taking all of her effort just to keep them open, trying to fight the drugs swiftly taking over her body. She still doesn’t trust him, despite the fact that she trusted him enough earlier today to turn her back to him and walk away when he had a gun in his hands. He knows she only did it because she knew he wouldn’t shoot. All her continued platitudes about not trusting him are complete crap in light of that one action. He’s saved her life multiple times now, he’s refused to retaliate when she attacked him, and she’s never even the slightest bit on her guard when he’s armed and she’s not. She doesn’t trust him in general, but she trusts him with her life, and that’s enough for him. 

Right now, the most important thing to do is get them both out of this hole-in-the-wall bar and out of this town before someone happens upon the slaughter he just wreaked and starts asking questions. He spares a glance around at the bodies, not because he feels the slightest remorse for killing them, but to make sure none of them are still breathing. Men like this are the scum of the earth, perpetrators of the kinds of unspeakable crimes that he and Miles were trying to prevent when they first established the Monroe Republic with nothing but the best of intentions. Rape had always carried harsh penalties with it in the Republic, but they’re in the Plains Nation now, and it has no such restrictions to keep people in line. He’s seen what happens when there are no laws, he’s seen the aftermath, he’s seen what Charlotte’s fate would have been if he hadn’t arrived in time. 

Those thoughts, the sharp smell of bad alcohol hanging heavy in the room, and the metallic tang of blood all combine to make him momentarily nauseous. He leans forward, planting his hands on his knees and sucking in deep breaths. Charlotte’s eyes are closed now, and her head’s fallen limply to the side. He’s wasting precious time. He forces himself to stand up straight, then moves towards her to kneel at her side. 

She’s unconscious, clearly incapable of walking. He’ll have to carry her. He brushes her hair away from her neck and presses his fingers to her pulse point, counting the steady beats there, the reassuring thrum of blood pumping through her veins. He stands again, wiping the mess off his two swords on the pant leg of the nearest body before shoving them both through his belt and out of the way. Charlotte didn’t have any personal effects with her besides her jacket, which is still hanging on the stool she’d previously occupied. He retrieves it, wedging part of it under her belt so he won’t have to carry it, then slips an arm behind her back, looping her bare right arm around his neck and out of the way. He hitches his right arm behind her knees and hoists himself to his feet, Charlotte nestled securely in his arms. He hid the horse and trailer in a thick stand of trees outside of town, so he’s got quite a way to carry her, and the less attention they attract, the better. He exits the bar through a side door he’d scouted out earlier instead of the front door, just to be cautious. 

Charlotte is heavier than he expected for someone so small and slim. The dim moonlight lines the curve of muscles in her arms, and he realizes he’d never noticed them before because he’s never been this close to her since meeting her again as an adult. He’s never touched her at all, other than the hit to her stomach the night before, which hardly counts. Despite her limp, utter relaxation, he can feel the long, lean muscles in her legs, no doubt well-earned from hard, endless miles of walking. Walking after Miles, walking after her brother, walking after him, all with the same grim determination. 

Her head, previously tipped forward towards her chest, rolls sideways and collides with his shoulder, where it stays. He can feel her steady breaths ruffling his shirt, sending goosebumps down his spine. He doesn’t know how long it’s been since he’s held someone like this. It feels so right, so comforting, that it squeezes a tight, aching band around his heart. He speeds up his steps, trying to reach the hidden trailer before this stolen bit of intimacy scars him in some irreparable way. 

A few minutes later, he’s found the path he followed earlier out of the woods. Not much farther now. He’s going to settle her in the back and get moving before anyone can find them. It’s probably overly paranoid precaution, but he’s learned the hard way that it’s better to be safe than sorry. He’ll stop and make camp once the sun is up. Maybe manage to snatch a little sleep himself before Charlotte wakes up. 

He’s distracted from his plans by her head shifting on his shoulder again, almost…snuggling into it. Her free hand, previously curled up on her stomach, is now entangled in the front of his shirt, fingers clutching at the fabric like she’s a child and his shirt’s a beloved blanket. He can feel the cold of her fingers against his skin as startling as if there wasn’t a barrier between them. Or maybe he’s just imagining that. It’s clear that she’s imagining something as well, namely that he’s anyone in the world but Monroe. Probably Ben, or Miles, or her brother, or maybe even some boy from her past. He feels a ridiculous twinge of jealousy at any of them. He may be the one carrying her, but he’s also the last person she would want to. 

He hears the jangle of the horses’ harnesses before he can see them in the close darkness of the woods, and relief quickens his steps again. He’s eager to get her tucked away in the back of the trailer. Charlotte being unconscious is a liability to both of them. If someone happens upon them, Bass can’t fight with her in his arms, and it’s hard enough protecting yourself in the Plains Nation without having to protect an unconscious person as well. He’s uncharacteristically jumpy in this vulnerable state they’ve been reduced to, flinching when an owl hoots from a nearby tree, almost breaking into a run when he hears the scurry of unseen animal feet in the underbrush. He tells himself he’s being irrational, but it has little effect. 

When he finally reaches the trailer, he lays her down in the back, where the bounty hunters kept him tied up. He briefly contemplates tying her as well, for her own safety. When she wakes up, she’ll probably be out the door faster than he can blink, not interested in waiting around for an explanation. But if they put what he thinks they did in her drink, she’s going to be out for at least half a day, and when she does wake up, she’ll be lucky to make it three steps before collapsing. Better to leave her untied, he decides. Maybe she’ll even take it as a show of faith and start trusting him a little more. _Or maybe not._ Optimism never sits well with him. 

She looks uncomfortable on the floor of the trailer, limbs sprawled at strange angles, damp pieces of hair hanging in strings over her face. He glances around the clearing before hoisting himself up into the trailer, crawling over her to reach the bounty hunters’ supplies he’d previously inventoried and rearranged. The stack of blankets is near the front, and he grabs two, balling one up to stuff gently beneath her head and shaking the other out to cover her with. He jumps to the ground and turns to bolt the door, pausing only to brush the tendrils of hair out of her eyes. 

He leads the horses out of the clearing and back onto the overgrown road that runs through the woods, then climbs atop the driver’s bench, slapping the reins and urging them into the fastest speed they can manage while not making too much noise. He’ll breathe easier once they’ve put a decent amount of miles between themselves and the town they just vacated. 

For the first ten miles or so, his thoughts are vacant, instincts taking up the space they leave behind. The steady jangles and hoofbeats and creaks form a background rhythm in his head, secondary to any foreign noises that immediately draw his attention. He makes the best use of his eyes that he can in the dim moonlight, but he can only glance over his shoulder so much before he drives himself crazy, so he lapses back into relying on his sharp hearing. 

When the stiff set of his spine begins to unconsciously relax, he knows they’re probably safe. No one has come galloping up behind them, and he’s reasonably certain no one has followed them. He’s taken a few different roads, switching from dirt to broken cement and back to make them more difficult to track. The dirt is dry and dusty, and occasional gusts of wind blow across it, so it would take some sort of expert to find them. Add that to the fact that he left no witnesses alive back there who could describe their appearances, and he inhales deeply and freely for the first time all night. 

The sky lightens gradually, and he keeps driving. The sun comes up and is quickly obscured behind a heavy gathering of clouds, and he keeps driving. Raindrops begin coming down, so small and gentle they feel like a caress. After a few minutes, there are enough of them to plaster his hair to his forehead in wet curls, and still he keeps driving. The horses snort and shake their manes in irritation. Bass squints up at the slate-gray sky, trying to decide how long it’ll take the sprinkling to turn into a downpour. They need to get off the road before the dirt turns to mud beneath the wheels, leaving blatant tracks. He spots an overgrown road, more of a path, leading off into the trees and turns the horses onto it. The trailer bumps and jolts uncomfortably over the uneven ground, but the entangled branches overhead protect them from some of the rain. He keeps them on the path until it narrows and the trees grow too close together to be passable, then stops to make camp. 

The horses’ moods improve considerably once they’re out of the harness and tied under the sheltering leaves of a large oak tree. The rain is coming down in earnest now, soaking Bass’s clothes and running in rivulets down his face. It’s not such a bad thing, considering he can’t really remember the last time he bathed. He squeezes his eyes shut, tilting his head back and holding his arms out like he’s embracing an old friend. And maybe he is. He used to hate rain, but his giggling sisters would always drag him outside for the first warm summer rain, spinning in delighted circles until he came at them with a handful of mud, after which they would predictably shriek and run away. 

This rain is nothing like that, though. The cold stings his skin, a welcome, icy pain to drive the memories away and bring him sharply to reality. He decides to take shelter in the back of the trailer for now. The downpour should keep them protected enough from intruders. 

He crawls in next to Charlotte, shutting the door tightly behind him, shaking his head like a dog and sending droplets of water flying everywhere. The interior of the trailer is a little cramped with all the supplies and two people. It’s not wide enough to lay down comfortably, so he settles his back against the wall by Charlotte’s head. There are goosebumps on her upper arm, but her forehead is covered in a light sheen of sweat. Maybe the drugs are giving her some sort of fever. Bass tugs the blanket up around her bare shoulders. She looks no closer to waking up than she did hours before. 

Now that he can relax a little, he suddenly realizes how exhausted he is, the result of too many nights of an hour of sleep snatched here and there. It’s probably not the best idea he’s ever had, but he leans his head against the wall and closes his eyes, and Charlotte’s soft, steady breathing combined with the thumping rain on the roof lulls him gently to sleep. 

When he wakes up, he still feels, and probably looks, like death, but he’s used to it. It’s basically his constant state of existence lately. However, he feels comfortably warmer than usual, and as he orients himself back in the waking world he realizes with a start it’s because he’s scooted much closer to Charlotte in his sleep, unconsciously slipping down to the floor and molding his body into her warmth, the blanket and maybe a spare inch between them. That snaps him wide awake, and he wriggles a more appropriate distance away. He’s lucky she didn’t wake up while he was doing that. She’d be more than happy to reward his rescue of her with a sharp kick to the groin for lack of a better weapon to hand. He’d rather avoid that if at all possible. 

His rush to get away disturbed a corner of the blanket and he notices it’s no longer covering her bare right arm. He wraps a hand gently around her wrist to move it back under the cover, but he pauses when something other than smooth skin meets his fingertips. It feels like scar tissue. When he flips it over to inspect it and catches sight of what it is, he doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry. There, marring the flawless, tanned skin on the inside of her wrist, is the Monroe Republic brand. His brand. 

His earlier words ring mockingly in his head. _I don’t want to hurt you_. No wonder she’s so reluctant to believe them. Not only is he indirectly responsible for her father and brother’s deaths, he also unwittingly caused her some excruciating physical pain at some point, probably very much against her will. He knows it’s excruciating because he branded himself over his old tattoo, biting down on a rag to muffle his cries of pain. It was only afterwards, when he was no longer General Monroe, that he kind of regretted putting all those new recruits through that. Too late to feel bad about it though. Always too late. Sometimes he wishes he was capable of learning from his mistakes before actually making them. 

He traces a finger over the ridged skin, marveling at the irony that is their lives, his and Charlotte’s. No matter how much she hates him, even if she’d succeeded in killing him, even if the bounty hunters had whisked him out of her reach forever, she’ll bear his mark on her skin for the rest of her life. He’s literally engraved there, inescapable. He’s torn between feeling guilt and some sort of sick satisfaction about that. 

He doesn’t want to hurt her, never wanted to hurt her. There was a time when the idea that he ever could would have been unthinkable, when she was the closest thing he had to a little sister anymore and the world was less messed up. Back then, his fear had been that the world was going to break her. How wrong he’d been. He broke her more than the world ever could, breaks her still every time she wishes she could talk to her dad or hug her little brother. And now she can’t even look at her own wrist without being reminded of the man she blames for everything. No wonder she wants to kill him. 

He realizes he’s still holding onto her wrist, and he flips his own arm upwards to look at his brand. It’s funny, really. Here they are, former friends, former enemies, both wrecked inside and out by things that don’t exist anymore. He knows she’d deny it with her last breath, but they’re actually quite similar, the two of them. Two sides of the same coin. 

He tucks her arm under the blanket, leaning his head back against the wall, waiting for the rain to ease up, wondering why he feels so much worse about her one brand than about all the tens of thousands of others combined.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Charlie was unconscious for this entire chapter, but I'm too busy swooning over the fact that Bass carried her to care.
> 
> Reviews are very much appreciated. :)


	3. Chapter 3

Bass startles awake in the middle of the night, whatever nightmare he just left already forgotten, blurring together with the litany of nightmares he's grown used to over the years. Screeching brakes, shattering glass. Pitch blackness pressing in all around with not a single light to break it. The world on fire, punctuated by inhuman screams. And most of all, bloody heads, bloody necks, bloody chests, bloody hands. Blood everywhere. 

There’s no blood now, though, and it’s not entirely dark either. There’s a thin stream of moonlight slanting through the stained curtains, enough to bathe the small room in a silvery glow. He tries to bring his hands up to run them through his sweat-matted hair, but something is pinning his left arm down. Senses on the immediate alert for danger, he whips his head to the side, then immediately relaxes. It’s just Charlie, sound asleep on his bare chest. 

He drops his head back on the mattress. The words _just Charlie_ can’t begin to do any part of this situation justice. The whole thing is still so surreal that he swears he’s dreaming most the time. He doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to wake up next to her and not have to convince himself that it’s real. Partly because he doesn’t wake up to her that often; she rarely allows herself the luxury of staying in his bed to sleep afterwards. Is luxury the right word? Probably not for her. Weakness might be more accurate. The expression on her face when she leaves is always a surprise; he never knows what he’ll get from night to night. Sometimes it’s sheepish. Sometimes it’s guilty. Sometimes it’s reluctant. That one’s his favorite, because it means he can follow her, pressing kisses to whatever patch of skin his lips happen to encounter, slipping his arms around her waist and drawing her back. 

No one else knows yet, he thinks. He assumes. He would know if they did. They’d make sure of it. For all her guilt, that’s probably the real reason Charlotte usually slips back to her own sleeping quarters. Bass doesn’t protest; it’s all on her terms. Even if it was on his terms, he doesn’t know what he wants. He wants the world to know that Charlotte Matheson is his, except if he ever said that she’d punch him in the face. Contradictorily, he wants to keep it a secret between just the two of them, because it’s both flawed and flawless at the same time, and might be spoiled by anyone else knowing. Not to mention that he’s also more than a little afraid of their reaction. Sometimes he wonders which one he dreads finding out more. Miles would go all old school indignant father, dragging Bass out the door and challenging him to some sort of duel. Not in so many words. Just a good old bare-knuckle beat-down between the two of them. Rachel would just give him one of her dead-eyed, tight-lipped stares. Then, when he was least expecting it, she’d probably stab him in the stomach with a butter knife, if only to draw out his suffering as long as possible. Rachel. It’s definitely Rachel he’s more afraid of. He’d take Miles over her finding out any day. 

It’s not even fair, because they’d act like it’s _his_ fault. So maybe he’s complicit, more than willing, but it’s not like he _instigated_ it. That was all Charlotte. She’d been the one who’d crushed her lips against his for the very first time, startling him so much with her intensity that she’d easily backed him up against a wall. He hadn’t even had time to worry that someone might see them before she’d whispered into his ear to wait a few minutes before following her into the woods. And he’d followed her without a second thought, all too aware that he’d been tamping down his less-than appropriate physical reactions to her for far too long. It had taken him a long time to even admit to himself that he wanted her, but once he did, he was even more careful around her. He wasn’t going to be the one to break. And although he’d glimpsed what looked like lust sometimes in her eyes when she looked at him, he’d told himself maybe it was just loathing. Sometimes Charlotte was extremely difficult to read. 

He’d thought it would be a one-time thing, had tried to ignore how painful that idea was. She’d stayed away from him as much as she could for weeks afterward, guilt clearly inscribed into her every feature, and he’d been terrified someone would know what they’d done just by looking at them. No one had, though, and something had drawn Charlie back to him after he’d given up all hope that it might ever happen again. She’d slipped into his room in the dead of night, pulling her shirt off before he even had time to sit up, kissing him into silence when he weakly tried to protest that it probably wasn’t the best idea. 

Now here they are. Bass has lost count of how many nights it’s been, and the whole thing is Charlie’s fault. But nobody’s going to start beating her up when they find out. They’ll pin it all on him, and it’s laughable, because when does Charlie ever do anything that she doesn’t want to do? 

Funnily enough, Miles did suspect it once, briefly, when they first arrived in Willoughby, long before there was anything to actually suspect. Bass had truthfully denied doing anything. _I wouldn’t let him touch me_ , Charlie had said. And Miles had dropped it, never to bring it up again. Bass knows Miles, though. No one’s more observant than Miles, and now that they’re back to sort of being friends, Bass wonders if Miles isn’t in denial, refusing to see what’s right in front of him so as not to upset the status quo. 

He’d brought it up to Charlotte once when they were both in a post-orgasm haze, sated and grinning. She’d been in an especially good mood that night. He’d never seen her look so happy, and he was absurdly proud of that, because he was at least partly responsible for that dazzling smile and the tiny crinkles by her eyes. “Remember when you told Miles you wouldn’t let me touch you?” he’d whispered into her neck. 

She’d twisted around to slap him playfully upside the head, and he’d ducked away laughing. “I was so mad when he asked what you'd done to me. Like I wasn’t standing right there. Like I was helpless and stupid.” 

“Like I’d tricked you into bringing me back with you,” Bass supplied, lacing his fingers through hers so he could kiss the ticklish underside of her arm. She tried to jerk it away reflexively, but he’d just tightened his grip on her hand. 

“I think he was implying more than trickery was involved.” She turned a suddenly suspicious expression on him. “He acted like it was something you’d done before.” 

Bass had closed his eyes, a slow, content smile spreading across his face. “What are you saying, Charlotte? That I’m so good I can dazzle women into doing whatever I want them to?” 

She’d snorted at that. “ _Miles_ said that. I know better.” 

“Oh really?” he’d muttered dangerously, rousing himself from his satisfied haze once more to land open-mouthed kisses on her stomach, then lower, blood running hot at the sound of her sucking in a deep breath and whispering his name, his _real_ name, not Monroe, as she always calls him in the daylight.

Bass wipes his free hand over his face, trying to banish the arousing memory from his mind, if only because Charlie’s sleeping so peacefully and he’s exhausted her enough for one night. But it’s difficult when he’s wide awake and her naked body is pressed up against his skin. He tries to distract himself by focusing on the arm she’s laying on, which is several stages past numb at this point. He shifts slightly, trying to wiggle it out from under her without waking her. It’s nearly free when his fingers snag in her long, tangled hair. Her head shifts on his shoulder and he freezes, not wanting her to wake up, not wanting her to leave. But all she does is mutter softly in her sleep and move a hand up to clutch tightly to the blanket on his chest. His heart gives a painful squeeze at the gesture. It’s something Charlotte’s always done in her sleep. Grasp tightly onto whatever her hand encounters, like it’s something precious that she’s trying desperately to prevent from slipping away. 

Bass wraps his hand around her much smaller one, gently caressing her knuckles. Charlie may have lost a lot of things in her life, but he’s damn sure not going to be one of them. As long as she wants him, however she wants him, he’s going to be right at her side. Even when Miles and Rachel find out. Miles can beat him black and blue, Rachel can give him all the death glares she wants. It’s not going to make a difference. It’s Charlie’s decision, not theirs. 

Sometimes it frightens him a little how attached to her he’s become, how possessive, how desperate for her touch. Oh, he hides it well. She knows he wants her, constantly, fiercely, but he thinks if she understood the depth of emotion she sparks in him, she’d put a stop to this…whatever it is…immediately. 

The only concession he makes to these feelings is silent, physical. As long as he only expresses them that way, she doesn’t seem to mind. His hand slips down to caress her hips, where he knows he’s left more vivid purple bruises, each one an impression of his fingertips emblazoned on her skin. He feels horribly guilty about them, these constant marks he leaves on her body. He doesn’t do it on purpose. In fact, he actively tries not to hold her so tightly, but it’s easy to forget that resolve when she’s moving and sighing over him, under him. It’s easy to lapse back into his instinctual insecurities. Because he’s lost damn near everything that ever mattered to him in his life, and why should Charlie be any different? Why should he hope to keep something good? He can’t help himself; he grasps onto her like he’s a drowning man and she’s the rope that can pull him to safety. 

And he knows he doesn’t deserve it one bit, but Charlotte never questions him, never reproaches him about it. Except once, early on. He’d been even less careful than usual and left bruises on her wrists. She hadn’t cared at the time, too caught up in the moment, but the next day Rachel had questioned her about them and Charlie had been forced to come up with a lie on the spot about a tussle with a Patriot, then bear the inevitable anger that accompanied it. He’d winced, anticipating her wrath later, when he saw her side-eyeing him during Miles’s lecture about being more careful when doing recon. 

He’d been prepared, then, when she socked him in the jaw the second they were alone. “Don’t you e _ver_ do that again,” she’d hissed angrily. 

“I won’t,” he’d promised, rubbing his cheek ruefully and trying to look as penitent as he felt. He almost didn’t mind the pain from the punch, not only because he deserved it, but because it had accompanied words that promised _again_ , and he was already addicted to her. 

And they’ve both kept their promises. She returns to him again and again, and he manages enough self-possession to only anchor himself to places that will be covered by clothing come morning. The wonderful thing about Charlie is that she doesn’t need to talk about everything, or much at all, really. She understands implicitly that he needs this. And she needs it too. They’re both desperate for it. The touch, the pleasure, the bruises, but more than that, the intimacy of it all, of knowing another person so thoroughly inside and out. Not in any regular sense; there’s still so much they don’t know about each other’s pasts. But instinctually, naturally. He doesn’t know what her favorite color is, but he knows the precise shade of her eyes. He doesn’t know when she first learned to use a crossbow, but he knows exactly how to make her come apart beneath his fingers and lips. He doesn’t even know her middle name now that he thinks of it, but he knows that she both mumbles and is surprisingly still and peaceful in her sleep. 

Except for one thing: her arms and hands, which always end up flung over his torso, clutching tightly to whatever they happen to encounter. Sometimes the blanket, sometimes his arm. He finds he doesn’t mind it, and most of all, he understands. The fears he faces in both his waking and sleeping hours, Charlie faces only at night. She won’t allow them during the day, so they plague her all the more in the dark. 

Bass suspected how similar the two of them are a long time ago, and knowing her better has only confirmed all of those suspicions. They’ve both lost almost everyone they love, and they both live in fear of losing the remaining people they care about. Neither of them wants to be vulnerable, and they fool themselves that they’re not. But here they are, wrapped in each other’s arms, and there’s something both beautiful and desperate about it. 

Bass eases himself out from under her and slides down her body, pressing soft kisses to each bruise in turn, wishing that could erase them. Wishing even more that it could erase the invisible scars she bears. 

“Hey.” Her voice sounds hoarse and groggy, and he pauses to look up at her, lips hovering above her hipbone. She’s squinting a half-open eye at him. “What’re you doing?” 

“What does it look like I’m doing?” he rumbles, smiling mischievously into her skin. 

She tugs at his arm, drawing him back up to her for a kiss. When he pulls away after, lying on his side facing her, she blinks unfocused blue eyes at him, then scrubs a fist across them. The action is endearingly childlike. He chuckles and presses a kiss to her forehead. Half-asleep Charlie is his favorite kind of Charlie. 

“You woke me up. Jerk,” she mumbles, softening the words by pressing her lips haphazardly to his neck. He’s not even sure if that’s where she was aiming. Her eyes are already drifting shut again. 

“I was thinking.” 

“Mmm. ‘Bout what?”

He tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “About when we’re going to tell Miles and your mom.” 

He’s joking, expecting her eyes to snap open, and probably a slap. Instead, she snuggles in closer to him. “Maybe tomorrow,” she murmurs. 

Bass lets out a startled breath of a laugh. “What? Are you talking in your sleep again?” 

She groans and squints up at him. “No. Going to get caught. One of these days.” 

He has no response to that other than a nervous laugh. Miles walking in on them is not a scenario he wants to be a part of, even in his imagination. 

“Maybe better to tell them. Pre-emptively.” Her head’s back on his chest, cheek squashed up against his skin, and it slurs her words. 

“Wow, Charlotte. You’ve got an impressive vocabulary when you’re half-asleep,” he says, a little worried at the direction this conversation is taking. 

“Shut up,” she says, fingers tangling in his curls and dragging his head down for another kiss. Her lips are warm against his, and her tongue is starting to make his brain feel fuzzy when her head tips over onto his shoulder, and he’s pretty sure she just fell asleep in the middle of kissing him. He feels like that should offend him, but he finds himself smiling instead. He brushes his lips against the tip of her nose, then relaxes back into the mattress, arm wrapped snugly around her waist. 

Charlie probably won’t remember a thing she just said in the morning. She’ll wake up before the sun rises and slip away like she always does on the nights she stays with him, and they’ll have one more day of keeping secrets. But in the long run, he knows she’s right. There’s a dangerously warm feeling expanding in his chest at the thought that she wants to keep whatever this is they have, even after everyone finds out. And lying here in the dark with her leg slung over his and her soft breaths tickling his chin, he thinks for the first time, _That might not be such a bad thing_.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't have an exact picture of when this chapter takes place, just sometime in a future where they've formed some sort of resistance against the Patriots and have a semi-permanent home/headquarters.
> 
> Also the angst/fluff ratio turned out a lot lower on angst than I'd intended. I apologize for nothing.
> 
> Thanks for reading/reviewing!


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